EARLIER. . .

As a general rule, the average Hunter is not particularly well versed in the finer points of spell construction.

Spell deconstruction, usually with extreme prejudice, is by necessity almost invariably something of a forte, but actually making the magic work rather than destroying it? The general consensus within the North American Hunter population is that using magic is somewhat akin to wearing high performance rollerskates while standing on the well-greased and steeply angulated slope of disaster, with becoming Something To Be Hunted a very clear end point at the bottom. In a stunning display of hypocrisy, nobody ever demurs about bindings or containment circles.

Of course, at any given point in time, nothing is quite that simple.

A couple of the more well-respected moderates, such as Bobby Singer or the late Father Jim, knew enough about the Art to manage the odd summoning, and while this was viewed with more than a little suspicion, there were few would would argue that being able to compel one's supernatural prey to a site of their choosing was a bad idea. At any rate, Singer's proven track record of success coupled with an extensive knowledge base - one that had saved more than a few lives on more than a few occasions - insulated him from any particularly vicious reprisals.

But this particular summoning had had nothing to do with Singer, which in a way was part of the problem.

The hunters performing the summoning in question would have welcomed Singer's help, though they refused to admit they needed it. But the problem was that Singer had long since chosen sides, and his decision had placed him firmly in the Winchester boys' lineup.

The younger of whom, it was readily apparent - at least to this particular group - fit the criteria of 'supernatural prey' like he was born to it.

Who knew? Perhaps he was. The certainly was something suspicious about that house fire in his nursery. Sam probably hadn't killed anyone - that they knew of - but he was psychic, demon tainted. It was only a matter of time.

Hunting him brought it's own rather unique set of problems. Problems that came in the shape of one John Winchester and, later, after the elder's death in rather unusual circumstances, his son Dean.

Hunting a creature that had it's own Hunter to keep it safe opened a barrel of worms, particularly when that prey possessed a rather formidable intellect and an equally efficacious education in current Best Practice in the Hunting world.

The Hunters had used this argument to justify their decision to resort to rather unorthodox methods, hence the summoning. They figured that by setting up in the industrial district of a city where the brothers had taken a werecat case, and timing the spell to start just after moonset, when the beast had either been killed or turned back, they'd catch the Winchesters tired, perhaps injured. Ideally they'd be separated, so Dean couldn't stop his brother when the spell took hold, forcing his steps towards the abandoned warehouse, clouding his mind, cajoling, enticing, commanding that he come . . . come . . .

That part of the plan worked perfectly.

By the time the spell-mazed and summoned Sam staggered into the abandoned warehouse, feet bloodied through his worn-through shoes from the jagged glass and metal that littered the area around the building, the summoners were readying their silver knives, the salt-mixed buckshot comfortably chambered.

Dazed as their prey was, it took disarmingly little effort to fire the drugged dart at the tall, lanky form, and mere moments later drag his quiescent body into the King David binding circle before manacling him hand and foot. Cold iron. Specially forged.

Nobody knew exactly what Sam Winchester was, so the discussion about how to destroy him had been lively. They'd decided earlier on that exorcism, then a silver knife, holy water, communion wafers, beheading, and burning would be the best method.

That part of the plan didn't work at all.

They'd expected the man to rouse; after all, the tranquilizers weren't going to last forever. They'd expected him to move within the binding circle, though be unable to leave it.

They hadn't expected their summoning spell to still be in action after their prey arrived.

They hadn't expected a jagged slash of a portal, somehow even darker than a cloud of demon smoke, to tear open the air above the circle. The hole, barely half a meter across, seemed to suck in the light, chewing it up.

It didn't spit out the second figure, not exactly. Clothed in a hooded jacket whose worn black seemed almost laughable next to the eye-wrenching darkness of the portal, the figure crawled out on his hands and knees, straight into the containment circle. The hunters barely had time to raise a silent prayer of thanks for that particular landing site before the portal silently folded in on itself.

The second figure rested back on its knees, black gloved hand reaching for its hood and sliding it off.

The face beneath the mussed, overly long brown hair was thinner than the one they were used to and frighteningly pale, but unmistakably familiar.

Sam stared impassively at the bound, unconscious figure of himself, the containment circle, the summoning altar, and the heavily armed men in front of him.

"Which of you jerks hijacked my portal with your summoning spell?" he demanded, swaying slightly.

The shortest of the Hunters staring open mouthed at him recovered first. Strongly built, though running to fat, his rough voice was only slightly softened by a Southern twang.

"What are you? Why are there two of you?"

Close enough to an answer, Sam decided, and when the roiling queasiness from having a portal suddenly shifted mid-travel converted itself into something more than mere nausea, he had the satisfaction of seeing the result spatter the man's pants and boots before darkness of a different kind claimed him.

The Hunters stared down at the two unconscious bodies in the circle with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

"There's two of them! What do we do now?"